I Am Not For Sale
This past week, I was one of the designated chaperones for a day out with some teenage girls our youth ministry mentors. We were given express instructions not to let the wild and free bunch with “raging hormones” out of our sight for too long.
So I tried to make sure I kept my group—6 girls—in line without being excruciatingly overbearing. I had no desire to be a killjoy and ruin the giggly and hyper girls’ fun day out at the mall. When I was their age, I wanted to enjoy myself too.
Well, one of the first stops was a store called “F.Y.E.” to check out some new music. With squeals, jumping, and lots of bizarre hand-fanning motions, they all combed through the Hip Hop section, gravitating to artists like Nicki Minaj, Lil’ Wayne and Kanye West.
“Oh my God I just love him!” one of the girls said, yanking a Rick Ross CD from the rack with a smitten look on her face. “When I get older, I’m gone marry a rapper so he can buy me red bottoms, nice cars and stuff,” she declared, slapping her girls high-five.
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